


Prove It

by sunflowerwonder



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Crime Boss!Jake, GTAstuck, Hitman!Dirk, Implied Age Difference, Implied Violence, M/M, Organized Crime, Sexual Content, some actual violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 15:58:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10744965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerwonder/pseuds/sunflowerwonder
Summary: Jake English, established leader of a criminal organization, takes on a petty street thief as his apprentice.





	Prove It

**Author's Note:**

> I did a Grand Theft Auto one whole time. 
> 
> (For, like, 2 hours.)
> 
> Cleaned up from an earlier AU.

He's a fresh young punk when he snags your car. It's a Benefactor. Custom, Stirling GT. You watch it sail into horizon, the glare of the sunrise bouncing off the gunmetal paintjob and the back of his fingerless gloved hand waving at you.

You don't dare raise a golden pistol to shoot out the tire of your own vehicle. Certainly not when you were just finishing up your morning run. Instead you send a brief text to an associate, and call Jane for a ride.

Jane is going over your financials with you, later, frustration ruffling her pantsuit as she discusses _tax evasion_ and that she's _not going to visit your foolish ass in jail, buster._ You wave her off when Roxy parades herself into the room with an impossibly pink gun slung over her shoulder. Two burly looking men under her domain drop the battered remains of an ambitious thief at your feet. Roxy asks if you want her to rev up the old car battery.

The kid is barely 25, eyes bright and terrified. 

You wave Roxy off but when the thief attempts to stand you shove a foot against his shoulder to keep him down. You congratulate the chap on hacking your thumbprint scanner and bypassing your other security measures. He's surely a young, budding talent in the criminal industry.

You ask him questions and he doesn't respond. A good kid. Knows when not to talk. You respect him, in that sense. You threaten a hammer to his collarbone but he only pales slightly. You look to Jane, as if questioning her opinion. She huffs and tells you it's none of her business who you recruit and who you bury in the desert on the edge of the county line.

It's fun to play with him, even as Roxy rolls her eyes and Jane taps a foot impatiently. He answers trivial questions only. His favorite color is orange. His favorite show is Princess Robot Bubblegum. He has three pairs of Beatoff headphones he bought at full price. He likes horses.

When you ask him his name, he hesitates.

You kick him across the room. Grab the collar of a too-tight, millennial T-shirt and shove him against the wall. A pistol is cocked and shoved forcefully beneath his jaw. He gasps for breath.

"Dirk," he tells you. "My name is Dirk."

You ask him what his last name is. He tells you he respects your request but it's none of your fucking business. He wrenches his chin away and bites down on the end of the muzzle. He looks up at you, doe-eyed and practically felating your gun, daring you to spray blood all over your office carpet for the sake of a petty thief's last name.

You offer him a job.

It's a dangerous game, to earn a criminal's trust. Usually money is enough to win over temporary loyalty but Dirk's demeanor rings different than the common crooks you're familiar in dealing with. He slouches in his seat and curls his upper lip to snap back at you like he's from the deepest crevice of the inner city. Yet he slides in and out of his expensive (stolen) car like he's done it every day since he got a Coquette from his nonexistent-daddy on his sweet sixteen. He dresses obnoxious yet high end. Talks with an unattractive accent but uses words you've only come across in the backs of dusty libraries. He's an enigma. Difficult to pin down.

When he executes a perfect jewelry heist you hate to admit you're a bit enamored with him. When he asks for a bigger cut you concede. He grins at you, blinks the fastest of winks in your direction, and departs with a car full of cash to his apartment, the only one of your associates's homes you don't know the location of and haven't bothered to find out.

When Roxy runs into a sticky situation with a former employer he's the first person you call. He brings her back to you with only the faintest scratch on her cheek. They're both holding milkshakes, and Roxy throws an arm over his shoulder and tells you he's the scariest motherfucker she's ever had the pleasure of meeting.

When you order him to escort Roxy home and stand guard for the night he complains that she can handle herself. You pay him well, thank him profusely, but you can't shake his independent spirit. His sly side-eyes that imply he's one step ahead of you. His courtesy but complete lack of respect.

You bring him on as an apprentice. Let him look over Jane's shoulder as you plan heists. He observes quietly. You don't know why you find yourself wanting to impress him. To win him over, to prove yourself competent and worthy of his loyalty. You're supposed to be the boss here. He's a kid with raw talent and a bad attitude you quite literally pulled off the street. Yet as you lay in bed at night, looking up at the ceiling of the apartment complex you _own_ , you decide you want him. His loyalty, his trust, his devotion, his skills—and anything else he can possibly give you. You decide you want him in every possible way.

You ask him to stay back one evening after the rest have gone home. He grins at you again, with that leering, knowing smile. He's devilishly handsome as he traces his fingers across the dark wood of your desk. You ask him to take out a particular target within your own organization. Discreetly. The others shouldn't know. 

You see a spark flare in him. An excitement. Your faith in him seems to fan and flare his faith in you because when he arrives at your doorstep in the morning, right before dawn, he's splattered with blood and holding out a cufflink for you in proof.

You let him shower in your master suite.

When he gets out he's fresh as a daisy and purposefully naked. He sprawls across your own bed like the most dangerous of dares. Testing you to try and move him. To challenge him.

You call him a bold scamp of a bastard. A punk too drunk on his own ego to utilize his natural skill.

He tells you he'd like to sleep with you, if you're not deadset on complaining about kids these days all morning.

When you awake he's gone, alongside the contents of your closet safe and the keys to your Truffade. It sinks cold in your gut where flares of rivalry and contempt and lust had sparked and crackled hours earlier. You feel like you've been slapped in the face by a lover you never really had in the first place.

When Jane asks if she should send a hitsquad you wave her off. Then you prompt a gun-cocking Roxy to soothe herself. You tell them you have hardly gone soft, but you'll let this one slide.

You run into Dirk almost a year later. It's on a rooftop party for the city's wealthiest, and he gives you a toothy grin lingering above a neck tied up in an expensive tuxedo. He apologizes for his actions, with uncertain sincerity, and explains he had to get a foothold on the bigtimes somehow. You hardly care. He's his own boss and always has been. You only voice—in embarrassing retrospect—out a single question. 

_Did you mean it,_ you ask him. His eyebrows raise. He's surprised, then pleased.

He invites you back to his apartment to find out.


End file.
